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The trees were on fire. In front of him, a towering beast snapped and growled. He threw a quick glance to his right; Petra was speaking, trying to calm her frightened mount as the creature pranced and shied from the flames. And all around, the sound of screaming, the crackle of flames, the dry glowing heat--
Caspar’s eyes snapped open. Above him, not stars or wheeling wyverns but a dark ceiling. He could hear his own breathing, fast and heavy with nerves, but also the peaceful sound of someone else fast asleep, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
He turned his head, almost surprised when his muscles didn’t ache and scream in pain at the motion. The sleeping person was Linhardt, which he figured should be no surprise, although he felt relief course through him at the confirmation his friend had made it through the battle. Linhardt lay by his side, his head resting on Caspar’s shoulder, and now that Caspar was a little more awake he could feel him breathing too. He felt his own breaths begin to slow to match. Having him here by his side was wonderful, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he was asleep in his bed. Well, Linhardt could fall asleep anywhere. It shouldn’t be that shocking.
His friend’s expression was peaceful, his long dark hair loose and messy from sleep. It was a shame to ruin such peace, but Caspar had to know. Besides, Linhardt was really, really good at catching up on missed sleep, so he figured he’d be fine.
“Hey,” he said, his voice creaky and thin in the silence. “Hey, Linhardt.”
Linhardt stirred, his face puckering and a low murmur escaping him. Caspar wondered if he should try poking him or something, but after a long moment, his friend’s eyes blinked open, gleaming gray in the moonlight that slipped through the cracks in the shuttered window. He made another noise, this one… pleased? Curious? And rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on one elbow and pressing his other hand against Caspar’s cheek.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice similarly sleep-rough. The hand moved to Caspar’s forehead, as if taking his temperature. “Of course, it’s the middle of the night, so not your best timing, but I’m glad you woke up at all.”
His fingertips explored Caspar’s scalp, and for some reason the movement felt wonderful until they brushed a tender spot. Caspar winced in pain, and Linhardt frowned. “Hold still,” he told him, and Caspar felt it now, the warm spread of healing magic slipping beneath his skin. The sharp pain faded, but there was still an ache now that he was aware of it.
Caspar swallowed. The familiar pleasure of Linhardt’s magic felt… different, somehow, here in this dark room with just the two of them. It felt personal, precious. He knew neither of those words really worked for what he was feeling. Actually…
“Where are we?” he asked, turning his head to peer around the room. Linhardt settled down with his arms crossed on Caspar’s chest and his chin resting on top of his folded arms, watching his face.
“A nearby inn. After that last battle, I thought an alternative to sleeping on the ground would do us both-- both good.” A yawn stretched out the last few words, and Linhardt seemed to be losing interest in the conversation fast. “Emphasis on the word sleeping. I’m glad you’re alright. Do you need anything else before I return to the blessed land of dreams?”
What about the monastery? Caspar furrowed his brow, wondering if he was missing something. Was there a mission they were about to head out on? It didn’t make sense for Linhardt to drag him along unconscious, though.
Linhardt seemed to take his silence as an answer, and levered himself up to face height. “Alright, good night,” he mumbled, and then, as natural as can be, he kissed him. It was a sleepy, sloppy kiss, and Caspar was frozen through it all, eyes wide. After a few seconds, Linhardt flopped back down on his shoulder, and his breathing evened out.
Caspar did not think he was sleeping again, not after that.
What was that?!
When they were children, Caspar had kissed him once or twice on the cheek in a fit of excitement, sure, but nothing since they hit their teens. And they were adults now, and that wasn’t just a kiss on the cheek, and Linhardt didn’t seem to think anything of it. What was going on?!
He thought about waking Linhardt up and making him explain, but he wasn’t sure if he could. Linhardt’s sleep was always much stronger the second time around. Besides, what would Caspar say? What if Linhardt had been so asleep at that point that he did it out of habit, and didn’t realize it was Caspar-- but then, that means he was kissing someone else, didn’t it? And kissing them a lot? Caspar didn’t like that answer either.
He really truly thought he’d never get back to sleep, what with his hammering heart and the fizz beneath his skin of the healing magic that had yet to disperse. But his body must have thought differently, because at some point he was waking up again, with daylight streaming in through the window.
He was alone in the bed. He didn’t have time to process whether he was happy about that or not before he rolled over, and there was Linhardt, sitting cross legged on a blanket on the floor. A map lay open in front of him, and he seemed to be studying it. The rustle of Caspar rolling over caught his attention, and he turned to look at him, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You injuries must have been more severe than I estimated. I don’t think I’ve ever been the first to wake before.”
That wasn’t saying much. Judging by the amount of sunlight, it was around noon, so it’s not like Linhardt had to wake up at a reasonable time to beat him. Caspar was having a hard time concentrating on that, however, because of what Linhardt was wearing. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a shirt that was obviously way too big for him, but that was just the problem-- it was just a shirt, only buttoned once or twice in the front, and nothing else.
If someone had asked him directly, Caspar supposed he could have agreed that Linhardt was pretty, in an abstract sense. He’d never really thought about it before. Now, with his friend sitting in front of him dressed like this, his long hair still falling loose around his face--
Caspar swallowed, feeling his face flush red, as he tried to look anywhere but his friend’s long legs. His gaze caught his bare collarbone instead, which wasn’t much better, and then finally wrenched itself up to Linhardt’s face, which held an expression of smug amusement.
Oh, goddess. He could tell he was looking. At least he didn’t seem to mind?
Linhardt turned back to the map, smoothing it flat with one hand. “You seem to have made a full recovery, at least. I feared the blow to the head had destroyed your last remaining brain cell.” His tone was playful and affectionate, but all the same Caspar seized on the change of subject, bolting upright in the bed.
“Hey! I have plenty of brain cells! Lots of them!” He wasn’t totally clear on what a brain cell was, but he wasn’t about to be made fun of. Unfortunately the sudden movement had a drawback-- a spike of pain shot through his skull, and he couldn’t help letting out a whine, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Linhardt got to his feet (unfolding his long legs-- focus, Caspar!) and came to sit on the edge of the bed, placing his fingertips at Caspar’s temple. Magic spread through the wound yet again.
“Perhaps with your myriad braincells you’ll agree with me that we should stay at the inn today so you can recover,” Linhardt suggested dryly. Caspar furrowed his brow at the suggestion.
“What about the others?” Surely they wouldn’t delay the whole army just for him, and Caspar didn’t love the idea of trying to catch up. Especially not with Linhardt in tow, who was a notoriously slow traveller. He was late to rise in the morning, and required more breaks than most people. He was alright on a horse, but if they were walking… he was even a slower walker than most.
Done with his spell, Linhardt’s hand remained, shifting to slide fingers through Caspar’s hair. The feeling was blissful, but Caspar was distracted by Linhardt’s frown. “Others? I’m not sure what you mean.”
Was Linhardt really playing dumb just to get another day of rest at the inn? “I mean like, Petra and Dorothea. Ferdinand and everyone. You know.”
Linhardt’s frown deepened. “Petra took Dorothea back to Brigid after the war. We had a letter from them last wee--”
“After the war?!” Caspar’s words came out much louder than expected, practically a shout. The war was still happening! Just yesterday he’d faced down one of those beasts, and-- Uh oh, Linhardt was peering at him with those narrowed eyes that meant he was trying to figure something out.
“Caspar, what’s the last thing you remember? Do you remember waking up in the middle of the night last night?”
Caspar nodded. Oh, he remembered, he remembered the oddly hushed mood, and Linhardt’s hand on his face, and that kiss--
Linhardt echoed his nod. “Alright. What about before that? What do you remember from yesterday?”
Yesterday…
“The-- those beasts,” Caspar said, voice halting as he thought back. “One of them cornered Petra and me, and the trees around us were all on fire. I think you and the professor pressed on, trying to head off reinforcements or something…” Even though it was just yesterday, the memories seemed hazy somehow. But then, the chaos of battle was always hard to recall in a way that made sense.
“...I see.” Linhardt retrieved his hand from Caspar’s hair and folded both of his hands in his lap. “Well, that explains why you’ve been acting so oddly.” His tone was flat, but Caspar thought he detected a hint of amusement as well. Caspar didn’t have the patience for his dumb mind games today, though.
“What do you mean?! What’s going on?” He shook Linhardt’s shoulder, as if he could rattle the answers out of him, but all it did was cause Linhardt to give him a severely unimpressed look. He still took several seconds to collect his thoughts before explaining.
“The war ended over a year ago,” Linhardt told him. He saw Caspar open his mouth to ask another question, and added, “We won. We all made it.” Well, everyone in the Black Eagles had made it. Their other classmates...
Caspar blinked, stunned. He should be happy to hear that they’d won, that the fighting was over, but it didn’t feel real. He felt like he was being lied to, like if he opened up the window and looked outside a battle would be raging just like before.
This was good, though! Caspar liked fighting but he didn’t like war, that was a whole different thing, and if the war was over less people had to die. If he focused on that fact maybe he’d feel a bit less lost inside.
After a pause as if Linhardt was waiting for some sort of outburst, jubilant or otherwise, he continued speaking. “Our fathers are fine. Your brother is fine. Your uncle--”
“I remember that part,” Caspar blurted, and Linhardt nodded. The silence hung between them for another moment.
“I’ll admit this is not a conversation I was expecting to have,” Linhardt mused after a bit. “It’s not exactly my area of expertise, but I know that cases of amnesia like this are rare. Do you think a second blow would return your memories?”
“Ugh, don’t you dare.” Caspar scowled and threw off the covers. “Okay, enough sitting around. I gotta figure out what else’s changed.” He couldn’t have let himself get out of shape just because the war was over, right? His body felt the same, but he couldn’t be sure until he could train a bit. Sparring would be best, but Linhardt wasn’t exactly a challenging opponent. Maybe a local tavern would have someone he could fight?
There were a couple of leather bags in the corner of the room, and Caspar went over to root through them as Linhardt watched him disapprovingly from the bed. In the first, he found one of his gauntlets and a jumble of clothes.
“Why’s our stuff all mixed up together?” he complained. There was a notebook of some sort wedged into the bottom of the bag, and in the end he just upended it, clothing and other bits and pieces going everywhere. He couldn’t even tell what was his and what was Linhardt’s.
“We’ve been travelling together for awhile, fighting bandits, righting wrongs, that sort of thing,” Linhardt replied, and then added around a yawn, “your other gauntlet’s in the bigger one. Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to come back to bed?” The end of his sentence was muffled, and Caspar glanced over his shoulder to see that he’d started to burrow back under the blankets.
“Ohhh no, you’re coming with me! Training with you’s better than nothing.” Caspar scooted over to the bed and yanked the blanket off. Linhardt regarded him with a baleful stare, curled up in the middle of the bed.
“I was up all night tending to you, and this is the thanks I get?” Linhardt complained, but after a bit more coaxing and begging, he rolled off the bed with a groan. He, at least, seemed to have no trouble picking through the clothes strewn across the floor to find something that was his, and even tossed a shirt and a pair of pants in Caspar’s direction. Then he reached up to unbutton his sleep shirt.
“OH.” Caspar said, much louder than intended, and Linhardt rolled his eyes at him.
“Don’t look if it bothers you,” he said flatly, and Caspar only had a second to wrench his eyes towards the ceiling as he changed.
“Alright, your turn,” he added, and when Caspar looked he was pointedly stuffing the leftover clothing back into one of the bags, facing away. They’d always had separate rooms back at the monastery, but when he looked around, there was only one door, presumably to the hallway. It felt weird, but didn’t seem like he had much of a choice.
He changed as quickly as possible, then strapped on his gauntlets and charged downstairs, almost reaching the door before he realized Linhardt was lagging behind. He dashed back up, grabbed his arm, and dragged him along behind. The inn had a sort of dirt courtyard that was mostly bare save for some boxes piled in one of the corners, and it was completely deserted, so Caspar declared it perfect for training.
What followed was so familiar it was almost comforting. He slipped into a fighting stance as easily as breathing, and it seemed his body remembered the attack forms drilled into him five years ago-- or rather, six years ago? When pushed into sparring, Linhardt batted away his attacks halfheartedly with a walking stick they’d found leaning against a wall, and Caspar pulled his punches so he didn’t actually hurt him. It made him miss his other friends, though-- he loved Linhardt, but he also liked sparring with people he could go all out with.
Wait, he liked Linhardt. Not. Not that other thing.
He groaned. He’d been able to avoid thinking about That Other Thing. In Linhardt’s summary of the past year, he’d mentioned they were travelling together, not… not anything else. And somehow it seemed so embarrassing to just come out and ask him!
Across the courtyard, Linhardt lowered his staff, brow furrowed, apparently concerned by his groan. “If your head is hurting again, we should probably stop,” he said evenly. Caspar wasn’t sure how much was actual concern and how much was him just wanting an excuse to be done and go back inside. It didn’t matter. With him lowering the staff, the medium sized hole in his guard became a gigantic one, and Caspar just couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“Big mistake!” he yelled, and in one fluid motion swept Linhardt’s legs out from under him with a kick, and then dove towards him. Linhardt’s eyes went wide in surprise, but, unable to react in time, he went down like a sack of bricks, Caspar on top of him.
“Great. This is how I’m rewarded for my concern,” Linhardt said after a moment, staring up at him unimpressed. “Do you really get much satisfaction out of defeating a frail individual like me?”
Normally Caspar would have to say no, but for some reason he was grinning ear to ear. “Of course it’s better fighting someone who’s an actual challenge,” he retorted, “but it’s not like beating you isn’t fun! What happened to all that height advantage, anyway?”
Linhardt heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh, this again? It’s only an inch now, I don’t think that counts for anything. May I get up, O mighty conqueror?”
Caspar snorted, and then hesitated. “Hey, can I ask you something?” The words were leaving his mouth before he could decide if it was a good idea.
“Can it be answered after you let me up?” Linhardt countered, which wasn’t really an answer, but Caspar decided to ask anyway.
“Why did you kiss me last night? Um, and why were we sleeping in the same bed? And-- that shirt you were wearing was mine, wasn’t it?” As he spoke, more and more questions occurred to him and came tumbling out of his mouth. “And you were fine changing in front of me? Why’s that? And--”
“I feel as though these questions paint a fairly clear picture,” Linhardt pointed out, and when Caspar glanced at him he was looking away, cheeks faintly red. “If you still haven’t figured it out, then I suppose your intellect was affected by that blow after all.”
“Stop talking in circles! Why won’t you just say it?” Caspar sat up, still sitting astride his friend’s torso, and balled his hands into frustrated fists. “Why do I gotta be the one to say it?”
“Admittedly, I made you say it the first time too,” Linhardt replied, growing still redder. “...but yes, you’ve figured it out. Good job. In the time between the war and yesterday, you and I became lovers. Does that upset you?”
Caspar felt that weird buzzing feeling under his skin again, and he was sure he was blushing too. He’d suspected, but why did Linhardt have to say it in such a detached and grown up sort of way? He wanted to get up and never think about this again. He wanted to ask for details. How, why, when? He wanted to kiss him.
Somehow it was that last thought that won out, and he found himself kissing his best friend breathlessly in the dirt outside some unnamed inn. When he’d lied awake at night during the war thinking about what would come after, he never could have imagined this; the way Linhardt gasped against his mouth, his slim sure hands firm on his waist, the smell of his hair.
And if that night he hit his head on the bedpost, and remembered everything in a flash of clarity, he still had this moment to remember too. Maybe things could be okay, actually. Maybe they were actually pretty great.